I took down the last of the Christmas decor today. The walls and windows are ordinary again. It’s always a bit of a sad moment.

I sorted through all of our cassette tapes recently. What does one do with these? I suppose most of them will go into the trash, but I do have a box that contains recordings of the kids when they were young. What value do you place on memories? A lot of you are my age, so tell me what you’ve done with your cassette tapes.

Squirrel Wars. They think we’re feeding them. They’re getting fat on bird seed and suet. I don’t begrudge them taking a share of it, but they’re taking all of it. The topic of baffles has become one of interest. I’m taking suggestions.

I took a bunch of our cat’s hair from the brush and rolled it into balls, thinking I was on the verge of creating a whole new attractive and frugal craft. Sadly, they look like the kind of thing the cat urps up, only drier. I guess I’m no Martha Stewart.

Well, on that note…

I’ll probably roll this into a ball and delete it in the morning. Wouldn’t you?

I got out of our car in the garage recently and was struck by the decorative filigree look of the frost on the cement floor. This calls for a photo, I said to myself, as I often do.

It reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite place it, so I let it ruminate in the back of my mind for a bit. Isn’t it a marvel the way you can put something on the back burner of your mind and it simmers away behind the scenes while you go on with other things? The older I get, the longer the pot has to simmer, but today, the brew came to a boil and I had an “Aha!” moment. I present the following for your consideration:

It’s a phoenix! A frost phoenix! If you can’t see it, let me know and I’ll say some earnest prayers for your imagination. (Where’s the smile emoji when you need it? Insert one here: ____). I’m trying to decide if another round of speed poetry is called for here. Sometimes I just can’t resist.

The phoenix rose up from the flames
Ablaze with colors of the sun
It shouldn’t have picked a sub-zero day
To show off and have some fun.

The cold hit that thing like a big Mack truck
It staggered and reeled some more.
The flames just sputtered, withered and died,
And the phoenix froze to the floor.

Ha ha!

I’ll probably delete this in the morning – and then it will rise up from the flames!

I’ve gone from leaves to jellyfish in my watercolor class. I’m still working at trying to do a nice graded wash, going from light colors to darker ones.

I’m mainly sharing this with you because I’m short of time today and don’t have much else to say.

The jellyfish has tentacles
Full of the nasty stuff
They’re lengthy stringy manacles-
Your ankles they will cuff.
But paint these little creatures
And suddenly they’re cute
With amiable features
And colors like a fruit.
They’re better pets on paper
Than in the salty sea
Where among your legs they’ll caper
And OUCH! They’ll sting and flee.

That was another round of speed poetry for you. It’s been rather a poetic week here on the Lynniebeemuseoday blog.

I will delete this post,
Or I won’t delete this post.
Which do you like the most?
(A poll from coast to coast)

A fairy flitted through the forest deep
Alas, she was shivering and cold.
Her mother’s admonitions she didn’t keep,
Nor wore her coat of gold.

“Too late, too late!” she feared the worst
To be caught by Old Man Frost
To live forever encased in a curse,
In a frosty tomb to be lost.

Just when her limbs were turning blue
And Despair did grip her heart
A rustling noise her attention drew
And Hope got a brand new start.

A beautiful cape was hung on a tree
The maple seeds clustered together
‘Twould fit her shoulders to a “T”
And protect her from the weather.

Old Man Frost reached out a hand
To claim his little prize
But the fairy warmed, she twirled and
Disappeared before his eyes.

So keep this warning in your mind
When Mother says, “Wear your coat!”
Don’t ignore her or you might find
A curse with no antidote!

I knew once I mentioned that a fairy might wear those maple seeds as a garment that a poem was brewing in the background. Do me a favor and read this out loud to someone. I’d love to make this poem into a little book with cute little illustrations.

Ah well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, and then I’d delete this post.

We went for a walk in the woods recently and I found myself musing about Robert Frost’s famous poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.” I decided to do my own version, with apologies to Mr. Frost. I’ve printed his first, since it should have pre-eminence, and mine, with the photos, afterward.

Stopping by Woods on A Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost

Walking through Woods on A Snowy Afternoon
Whose woods these are I think I know
The bend in the river tells me so
No one will see us walking here
To see the stalks all topped with snow

The cross-country skiers must think it queer
To walk instead of skiing here
Uphill and down without a break
Over the bridge, the deer path near.

Up to the fence, then leftward a shake
To see a field all plastic staked
The air is fresh and cold and sweet
Our lungs are alive, our legs awake

The cattails beckon, the sight’s a treat
But the car will take some time to heat
And miles to go before we eat,
And miles to go before we eat.
Lynniebee

I’ll probably delete this, but don’t tell Mr. Frost.

When we sing Christmas carols on Christmas Eve at home, I always insist that we sing all the verses of Good King Wenceslas. To recap, the carol is about the good king who sees a poor man gathering wood for fuel on a cruelly cold winter’s night, walking through deep, crisp and even snow. Those of us in Minnesota (and other hinterlands) know well what a cruelly cold winter’s night feels like.

So the king asks his page about the man – who is he, where does he live – and then concocts a plan for the two of them to go deliver some meat and wine to the poor fellow, as well as pine logs for his fire. The peasant lives a good league away, which is about three miles, so this is no easy jaunt. The night gets darker, the weather is bitter, and the wind gets stronger. There’s no mention of wind chill, but I feel it when we get to that verse – I feel it.

The young page begins to falter under these brutal conditions. He wants to finish the mission – there’s no doubt that he wants to stay with the king – but his heart is failing him. “I can go no longer,” he concludes, probably with some amount of shame and despair.

The good monarch neither condemns nor criticizes the page, but neither does he let him lie down and just rest for a bit. He encourages him. He gives him true courage to continue by telling the young man to walk behind him in his footsteps. “Thou shalt find the winter’s rage freeze thy blood less coldly.” And it works! As the page treads in his master’s footsteps, there is heat where the king has walked. He is warmed and renewed for the journey ahead.

The conclusion of the story is:
“Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth and rank possessing,
Ye who now will bless the poor, shall yourselves find blessing.“

A nice moral to be sure, that when we seek to bless the poor, we will ourselves find blessing. But I’ve always derived greater comfort and meaning in the idea that Christ will never lead us where He hasn’t already walked. He leaves footprints behind which we can follow and as we walk in them we will be given all that we need to keep going, no matter what sort of “rude wind’s wild lament” may be dragging us down.

Several times in the last week or so, we’ve been out walking in cold weather, trudging through the snow. I have sometimes positioned myself behind my husband, walking in his footsteps, and the song has percolated up into my brain almost subconsciously. “Mark my footsteps my good page, tread thou in them boldly…Thou shalt find the winter’s rage freeze Thy blood less coldly.”

And my heart is encouraged.

I’ll probably delete this in the morning unless someone comes to the door with meat, wine and pine logs. It might even be the King!

The cross alone
is our theology.

Martin Luther

The Lord bless you and keep you!

I had kind of hoped that another topic would present itself, but here I am, stuck with squirrels. They were out in force today – as many as I’ve ever seen gathered by our bird feeders. If Alfred Hitchcock wanted to take another run at a horror film after having filmed “The Birds,” he could take a pass at it with squirrels.

They come across as very playful, busy critters, but I was once followed by a horde of them at a park when I was in college and it was very creepy. When I say “horde,” I mean about ten of them.

I admire their chompers, though. We had a black walnut tree once and I decided to make black walnut cookies. That’s when I found out how hard they are to crack to get the meat out. I had to put each one in a vice and tighten it until it basically exploded. My husband did not appreciate this assault on his workshop. But watch a squirrel with one of those walnuts – child’s play! And no explosions either. This also makes me determined not to let one of those little buggers get ahold of one of my fingers.

We had six of them frolicking around eating all the bird seed today. You’ll find this incredible, but I have a favorite. He’s a little smaller than the rest and incredibly jumpy, which makes me think that he’s probably a runt that’s had to endure teasing by his older rodent siblings.

And now, for the grand finale: squirrel verse.

“Quit eating our suet!”
Said the bird to the squirrel
They began to fight,
A creaturely quarrel.
And while they were at it,
The other squirrels came
And had a nice feast
While watching the game.

That’s called “speed poetry.” It doesn’t take long and you don’t get much.

This is such a nutty post that squirrels will probably crack it into pieces and eat it in the morning.

On the way back from our early morning Bible study, we saw the rising sun was accompanied by those rainbow ears that make it a sun dog. So many glorious photos could have been taken from various vantage points on the way home, but all I had was my phone and we would have had to pull over and stop so I could get out and get the shots. It was about -13 degrees and I’m not that dedicated. I waited until we got home where I got my Nikon out to take a perfectly lousy shot from the back door. If it’s possible, use your imagination to remove the trees and houses and you can see the sun dog with its left ear.

I told you it was lousy.

At twilight last night, I looked out the window randomly and saw four deer strolling through our back yard on the way to dine on the neighbor’s tree, where they posed for a photo. This was another lousy photo since it was through the window.

I take a fair number of lousy photos, but don’t usually share them. Here are a few more because if you’ve read this far, you are the type who isn’t a quitter.

You can certainly feel free to share your lousy photos with me. And here’s one I took recently that could have fallen into that category, but I like it.

It looks like a gown of maple seeds hanging up to dry. If fairies exist, this is the type of thing they would wear.

So, that’s the musing of the day. Some days you get quality stuff. But this is not that day! (feel free to think of Aragorn when you read that)

Tomorrow I shall muse upon squirrels unless some other topic squashes that one in a bloodless coup. Stay tuned!

I’ll probably delete this lousy post in the morning.

Plastic bag or ghastly ghoul?
You decide!

This may be my shortest post yet, one that might be deleted in the morning.

First of all, does that sculpture look like me? I hope the answer is no, but we’ll come back to that later.

Registration for classes at the University of Minnesota back in the day was a big hassle. You could get your classes all picked out, wait in a long line, and finally get up to the registrar only to find out that one (or more) of the classes you wanted was filled, necessitating a last-minute substitution. Certain classes were nearly impossible to get into unless you had first-day registration, which didn’t happen often.

So one spring when I discovered I had struck gold with that coveted registration position, I abandoned most of my regular classes and signed up for ballroom dance, drawing and sculpture. Having suffered through many winters of discontent, I was about to embark on the spring of artistic adventures.

I’ll tell the stories of my experiences in the dancing and drawing classes another time. The above photo is the story of my sculpture class. I believe it’s the only project I did for the entire trimester. We had to create a clay model, encase it in plaster and then meticulously dig the clay out, leaving a hollowed out plaster cast in which to pour concrete. Finally the big day came in which we would take the plaster off and reveal our finished sculpture pieces.

Most of the students did what you might call normal stuff. Mine was definitely in the realm of weird. We gathered around each other’s pieces (small class – maybe 6-8 people total) and gave feedback. When the group assembled to look at mine, there was a brief silence as I imagine they were grappling with how to put into words the sensation provoked by looking at it. One fellow finally said, “It looks like you.”

While I was still reeling from that observation, another person noted that both of the hands were right hands – did I intend that? I had not. In fact, that was the first time it had been brought to my attention. I believe there may have been some discussion about what I was trying to communicate with this piece, but the rather dull truth was that I just thought it looked neat. I probably could have spun some philosophical nonsense about the oppression of man which would have found an appreciative audience. “See how he is oppressed from above, being held down by a hand. And his speech is oppressed by the hand over his mouth.” But the moment passed and I had nothing.

The thing that I just couldn’t get past was the guy’s comment that it looked like me (and the class generally agreed with this observation). It felt like an insult at the time, particularly since I was very sensitive about the size and shape of my nose. But I don’t think he meant it unkindly. It’s an interesting observation, actually – was I unconsciously re-creating the most familiar face to me, the face I always saw in the mirror?

We’ve lugged this heavy and unattractive piece with us wherever we’ve moved, which betrays a certain conceit on my part. I don’t think my kids will be fighting over who gets to take it when I’m gone. Somewhere there’s a dumpster just waiting to receive it and as dust returns to dust, so shall concrete return to concrete.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I’ll probably make a clay mold of this post in the morning and then throw it out before it becomes a monstrosity.